


You and I

by broflove



Category: South Park
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broflove/pseuds/broflove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan reunites with Kyle for the first time in years, and nothing is exactly how it seems. Stan tries to pick up the pieces of a broken friendship while coming to terms with the fact that the one person he ever cared about might never want him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stan wouldn't say he's unhappy. In fact, standing alone in the gas station convenience store, pushing new bottles of water into the drink coolers, he's completely content. He never imagined he'd be here; ever since he was a kid, he thought it was a guarantee that he'd go off to college with Kyle, that they'd get out of South Park and make something of themselves. He thought that Kenny would be the one stuck in the same old town, wasting his days behind the counter at a gas station and spending his nights drinking his regrets away.

As it is, Stan doesn't know what happened to Kenny, just that he's not in South Park, and he's certainly not working at the gas station, because that's where Stan is. Stan doesn't really know what happened to any of his old friends, actually. He knows that Cartman ran off with Wendy as soon as they graduated high school. According to the rumors, Cartman had knocked her up after prom, and as soon as her parents found out they told her to abort it or leave. So she left, because maybe Cartman actually loved her enough to want her and the baby. But that was just a rumor.

Stan actually got to talk to Wendy for a few minutes the day before she and Cartman disappeared, while they were waiting for their graduation ceremony to start. According to her, it was all some big whirlwind romance, mentioned nothing about a baby. As far as Stan was concerned, the only wind whirling around Cartman was flatulence, but if it swept Wendy off her feet, then fine. Whatever. As long as she's happy.

Stan lets the cooler door slam closed as he tears open a package of flavored vitamin water. He doesn't know why anyone buys this shit; he's never actually tried it, but it smells like medicine, and it's three times the price of regular water. But it sells like crazy. It's one of the few drinks he has to restock every single day, because it's always sold out by the time his shift ends.

He reopens the cooler and starts shoving bottles into the slots, a little more forcefully than before. Kyle used to like this shit. Or at least, his mom used to make him drink it, and Kyle always complained until he tried a weird flavor that was berries and kiwis and Stan doesn't even know what else. It's the flavor he's stocking now, in fact, in its stupid little pink and green bottle, and he hates it, because he can't look at it without thinking of Kyle.

Kyle disappeared after graduation, too; got a scholarship to some Ivy League college and took off with plans to be a lawyer like his dad. Stan's proud of him, knows that he'll be incredible, that he'll make something of himself – like they had always planned. He knows Kyle probably comes back home during the summer, and for winter break, but Stan never sees him, because Kyle was out of his life before he was out of Colorado.

Their friendship had been shaky through the remainder of elementary school and into middle school, because Stan couldn't get his shit together, and they both preferred to ignore their issues instead of work through them. It made sense at the time – hell, it even makes sense _now_ , because Stan doesn't think he'd do it any differently if he could go back – but it made their relationship kind of volatile, ready to blow up in their faces over the slightest disagreement. And in the mean time, Kyle was making new friends in his AP classes, while Stan was falling behind and sleeping through everything.

And somewhere along the way, they just stopped. Stopped meeting up at the bus stop, stopped sitting together at lunch, stopped hanging out on Friday afternoons. One day Stan opened his eyes and realized he hadn't spoken to Kyle in months, and that he didn't know how to fix it. And it was over. The annoyingly inseparable, close to the point of faggy, super best friends were no more. Their bond had fizzled out, died in its sleep while no one noticed.

Stan cried about it for exactly two weeks. He could barely go to school, barely look at Kyle, because every time he did, he saw that Kyle didn't miss him, that he was having too much fun with his new friends to even spare a longing glance in Stan's direction.

They reconnected once, just once, in high school, and it was impulsive and stupid, fifteen minutes made up of years of pent up frustration and heartache, and Stan is pretty sure Kyle regretted it afterward. The only thing Stan regrets is that it didn't last.

But it doesn't matter, because that was years ago, and they've both moved on. Stan knows that Kyle is happy, and he himself is content, and there's nothing else to say about that. He pushes the last few bottles of vitamin water into the cooler right as the little bell above the door jingles as someone enters the store.

Stan ignores them as he opens up another package of water; he'll wait until they're standing at the counter, clearing their throat impatiently, before he'll think about sauntering over to the cash register. Right now, he's busy, and they can fuck off.

But instead of strolling up and down the aisles, like he expected, he suddenly feels their presence behind him, staring at the drink display as if Stan's invisible.

"Are any of these actually cold?" they ask, and their voice is just snippy enough, a familiar mix of bitchy and finely trained politeness, that he doesn't even have to look up to know it's Kyle. But he does, and his head jerks up so fast that he thinks he gives himself whiplash, because there's no fucking way that Kyle could be here, _no fucking way_.

But he is, standing there with a little scowl as he examines the rows of water over Stan's shoulder. He looks almost exactly the same as he did in high school; his hair is cropped close now, and his face looks older, more set in a tired, impassive expression. But it's still him, so clearly _him_ , and that's such a relief that Stan has to hold back a laugh, because Kyle's _here_ , and it's almost like no time has passed at all. But the laugh, the smile, dies before it reaches the surface, because Kyle's gaze flicks to Stan's face, and there's no recognition, no relief in his eyes. Because they weren't friends in high school. There's no reason to be happy to see each other, to even remember each other.

Kyle arches an eyebrow, crossing his arms impatiently, and Stan breathes out, "Uh, hey. Kyle."

There's a moment where Kyle just looks confused, and then Stan can see a light come on in his eyes, knows the exact moment when Kyle realizes who he is.

"Stan?" he asks. "Stan _Marsh_?" Stan can't exactly tell if Kyle is thrilled or horrified; if he's about to hug him or run out of the store screaming.

Kyle does neither of those things, just smiles a little when Stan nods. "It's – it's been awhile," Kyle says. He's not quite meeting Stan's eye, and he looks so uncomfortable that it's making Stan nervous, and he wants to go back in time and fix everything. Because, in his head, he and Kyle never stopped being best friends, and it feels so wrong to have this awkward silence surrounding them.

Stan agrees, just for the sake of saying something, even though his awkward, "Uh, yeah," probably doesn't do anything to help the situation. He notices Kyle looking at the water again, staring at it with excessive interest, and Stan jumps at the opportunity. "Oh, right. Water."

He whirls around and pulls the cooler back open, digging toward the back to find a cold one. "So – you're still drinking these?" It's easier when his back is turned, when he doesn't have to look at Kyle's face.

Kyle laughs, and Stan hates how it sounds a little forced. "Yeah. Even the other flavors have grown on me. I love them all."

Stan still fishes out one of those berry/kiwi what-the-fuckeries, because somehow that just defines Kyle, and for once, Stan just wants something to stay the same.

He expects Kyle to bolt as soon as the water's in his hands, but he lingers, shifting uncomfortably, picking at the label. Stan can't remember the last time he saw Kyle this worked up over something – maybe he never has – and it's making him feel as guilty as he is flattered. At least he still means enough to make Kyle nervous. If this were just a casual encounter between elementary school friends, he doesn't think Kyle would care this much.

"So," Kyle says. "What are you doing here?"

"Dude, I never left. What are _you_ doing here?"

Kyle shrugs, twisting open the bottle and taking a sip. "I got an internship at my dad's firm. I'll be here for a while."

"Wow, that's great."

And suddenly they're talking. It's not as smooth and effortless as it used to be, because it seems like somewhere along the way Stan forgot how to read Kyle's mind, and Kyle will habitually stop in the middle of a sentence, trailing off into silence, and each and every time Stan feels a little lost when he can't finish the thought for him.

But they manage, and Stan gets to hear more than he ever thought he wanted to know about law school, but it's suddenly the most interesting thing in the world when Kyle talks about it, waving his free hand flippantly, as if all the things he had seen and done since leaving South Park were no big deal. Stan doesn't have much to reciprocate with; he started working at the gas station as soon as he got out of high school, and he never left, end of story. Kyle seems to pity him a little, asks if he plans on going to college someday, which Stan can only answer with a definite, "I don't know."

Their conversation is cut short when the bell chimes again, a mom and her two kids breaking the fragile peace that had fallen over them, and that somehow seems to remind Kyle that he has to go.

"I'll come back and see you again sometime, okay?" he says, already angling toward the door, because he must know that Stan's not going to charge him for the water.

It's not good enough; Stan doesn't want to spend the next few days waiting for Kyle to stop by, freaking out every time the bell rings, only to be disappointed. He has this feeling that, if he lets Kyle walk out that door, he'll never see him again. It's not true, because at least if Kyle doesn't come by again, he'll be in South Park for a long time, which means they're bound to run into each other again at some point. But that's not enough, it'll never be enough.

"Kyle, wait." He can't believe how desperate he sounds, but Kyle is the only friend he's ever had that actually mattered. No one ever took his place, and no one ever could. This time, at least, Stan's not going to let him go without a fight. "What are you doing later? I get off at seven – we could grab dinner or something."

For a second, Kyle looks like he's going to lie, make up some excuse to get out of it, but Stan can see him change his mind, a look that's purely ' _oh, what the hell_ ' forming on his face. "Yeah. Okay. I don't think I'm doing anything else, so."

It stings a little, but at least it's not a no, and Kyle is suddenly leaning over the counter to get paper out of the receipt printer as if he has every right to, and he does, because Stan would never dream of stopping him. Kyle could take all the money out of the register for all Stan cares; he'd use his savings to replace it before anyone found out.

"Do you have a pen?" Kyle asks distractedly, pawing around the register. He finds one before Stan can respond, and he scribbles something down. "Call me when you get off, okay?"

Stan tries not to sound overly enthusiastic when he agrees, tucking Kyle's number into his pocket so he won't lose it, but judging by the little smile that quirks onto Kyle's face, his excitement must be more than obvious. He doesn't care. As long as it doesn't make Kyle reconsider, Stan doesn't really see a point in hiding how he feels. For the first time in forever, his contentment is wavering on the edge of happiness, because this is the opportunity he's been waiting on for years.

And then Kyle's gone, grabbing a bag of pretzels off the rack on his way out, and Stan doesn't stop him. He watches him through the glass door as Kyle meanders through the lines of gas pumps, watches as he starts down the sidewalk, already snacking on his pretzels, gnawing the salt off like he used to.

" _Excuse me_." The waspish tone snaps Stan out of his trance, and the woman who came in earlier is standing impatiently at the register, her kids climbing on the counter and shoving packs of gum down their shirts. With a heavy sigh, Stan takes his place behind the register, but not without one last glance outside. Kyle's already out of sight, and his number feels heavy in Stan's pocket.

Naturally, the asshole who works the shift after Stan is late, saunters in without so much as an apology, and it's already 7:45 by the time Stan gets into his car. He'd planned on waiting a few minutes before calling, so he wouldn't seem creepily eager. He thought maybe he'd go home, change clothes and freshen up a bit, but now he can't get his phone out of his pocket fast enough. Just as much as he doesn't want to seem too eager, he doesn't want Kyle to think he doesn't care.

He dials Kyle's number with shaking fingers, listens to it ring again and again and again. He's afraid it's going to go to voicemail, but before it does, Kyle picks up, sounding a little dazed, like he has no idea who might be calling him. "Uh – hello?"

"Hey dude," Stan says, voice shaking. He'd hoped that would be enough for Kyle to recognize him, doubled with the fact that he should have been expecting Stan to call anyway, but he doesn't say anything. The only reason Stan knows he hasn't hung up in the steady breathing into the phone, laced with static from the closeness, and Stan wonders if he's lying in bed, phone sandwiched between his head and the pillow.

"It's, uh – it's Stan."

"Stan? Oh." Kyle definitely sounds like he'd been sleeping, and Stan feels a little guilty. Kyle makes a tight, breathy noise in his throat, probably stretching, and Stan hears him shifting around – the same noises Stan used to wake up to when they used to spend the night together. It hits him with a sharp pang of nostalgia, and all he can do is close his eyes and listen.

He hears the bed creak as Kyle sits up, hears some papers rustling around, then, "Oh! Oh, okay. Stan. Hey."

"Hey," Stan says, and he laughs, because he can't remember the last time Kyle was this adorably out of it. Kyle has to be the heaviest sleeper Stan has ever met; he used to mess with Kyle's face, his hair, just to see how far he could push him before Kyle woke up, and it was always a hell of a lot farther than he expected. And when Kyle's eyes did finally pop open, Stan was always convinced that he remained asleep for another good ten minutes or so, even if he was sitting up and talking.

"So," Stan says. "Do you still want to get dinner or something?"

"Oh God, uh." Kyle pauses to take a deep breath, shifting around a little more, and Stan thinks for sure that Kyle is about to turn him down. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. Just give me a few minutes."

Stan didn't realize how worried he'd been until the relief flooded through him like a wave, and it feels like the weight of years' worth of disappointment and loneliness has finally been lifted from his shoulders. He knows he's not safe yet, that tonight could be a complete disaster that would put a permanent end to any lingering friendship they might have. But it's a risk he's been waiting his whole adult life to take, and maybe his judgment is clouded by his endless supply of hopes and fantasies, but he really thinks that they have a chance, that this could _work_.

"Dude, no problem," Stan says. "Just give me a call when you're ready. Do you want to meet somewhere, or—"

"Can you just come get me? I'm at my parents' house."

"Oh. Sure." Stan had actually thought about offering, but he figured Kyle would want an escape route if things turned sour. He's not at all disappointed to be proven wrong.

"Ten minutes," Kyle says, and then he's gone. Stan tucks his phone back into his pocket with a sigh, wondering if Kyle is as nervous as he is. He must be – there's something about him that Stan can't quite put his finger on, but it's been there since Kyle showed up at the gas station. An inexplicable oddness, something Stan can't quite chalk up to getting older.

Or it's just his nerves talking. Kyle has always been a little different, a little bitchy and demanding, especially with people he didn't know, and Stan supposes he falls into that category now, too. There's no reason for Kyle to be warm and friendly with him because, unlike Stan, Kyle actually moved on. Stan should just consider himself lucky that Kyle agreed to go out with him at all, because he had every reason in the world to say no.

It won't take ten minutes to get to Kyle's house from the gas station, but Stan has nothing else to do, he goes ahead and starts in that direction, trying to make himself drive slowly. It doesn't really work out; between his excitement and the habit of flying down abandoned streets at night, Stan finds himself in Kyle's driveway in roughly five minutes.

It doesn't matter, he decides, as he gets out of the car. This isn't a date, nothing super formal; there's no reason why Stan can't just sit on the couch and wait for him, like he always did. This will only be awkward if they make it awkward, and Stan isn't going to let that happen. He's going to act like no time has passed, like they're still nine years old, naïve and invincible, heads filled with impossible hopes.

It's been years since he's been here, but Stan almost opens the door and lets himself in. He pulls his hand off the doorknob and rings the bell instead, and it feels so cold and uncomfortable. This place used to be a second home; he can't fathom not being allowed in.

When the door creaks open, Stan is just as surprised to see Mrs. Broflovski as she is to see him. He doesn't know why he expected to see Kyle there, ready to bolt out the door, but it seems he hadn't even been downstairs to tell his mom his plans, because she lets out an ecstatic, "Oh, if it isn't little Stanley Marsh! How have you been, dear? Would you like to stay for dinner?" She's visibly older now, stripes of gray swirled into her considerably smaller bun, but her smile is the same.

"Oh, no thanks," Stan says awkwardly. "I'm uh, I'm actually taking Kyle out, so – is he ready?"

Her smile is gone in an instant. "Taking him out," she repeats stiffly. "That's hardly appropriate."

Stan is so confused by her sudden mood swing that he doesn't know how to respond. He manages to stutter out an awkward explanation, that they're just going to catch up, and that only seems to relax her marginally. Stan is rescued from the conversation when Kyle comes bounding down the stairs.

"Stop it, Ma," Kyle says tiredly, pushing past her to get outside. "I'm allowed to have friends."

"Be careful, Bubbie," she says, grabbing his hand and reeling him back in for a hug. She holds onto him for so long that Stan starts to get a little uncomfortable, standing there awkwardly halfway between the porch and his car. They're only going to be gone for an hour or two at most, but she's cupping his face and whispering something against his ear, as if this is the last time she'll ever see him. Stan's eager to leave, and he clears his throat lightly, which catches Kyle attention.

Kyle twists out of her embrace, and he looks more pissed off than embarrassed as he hurries toward Stan's car. Stan expects him to grumble out some kind of apology once they're settled in the car, but Kyle doesn't say a word as Stan pulls away from the curb. Kyle's gazing sullenly out the window, his chin resting on his fist, and Stan can't remember a time when Kyle ever looked so trapped in his presence before.

"So, um," Stan says. "Where do you want to go?"

Kyle jumps a little, startled, and he must be as uncomfortable as Stan is, because he doesn't quite turn to look at him when he responds, "I don't know. Wherever."

Stan drums his fingers on the wheel. "Pizza?"

Kyle shrugs and Stan takes that as a yes, making an abrupt turn into Mr. Garrison's driveway, backing out, and then taking them in the opposite direction.

The drive is awkwardly silent. Stan has to keep reminding himself that Kyle agreed to this, that he must want to be here, but the atmosphere in the car is tense and heavy, as if this were a formal family reunion that they were forced to attend. It's kind of like that, Stan thinks: Kyle's like a distant relative that he used to hang out with all the time, and now they're together again out of obligation, not because they have anything in common.

By the time they pull into the Whistlin' Willy's parking lot, Stan is feeling decidedly less optimistic. Kyle barely acknowledged him the entire drive, unless Stan spoke first, which Kyle seemed to find vaguely startling. But Stan tries to keep his hopes up, announcing a cheery, "Here we are!" as he pulls the key out of the ignition.

Kyle looks around, blinking rapidly, as if pulling himself out of a daze. "Oh. That was fast."

To Stan, it seemed like the longest drive in the world. But he shrugs as he pushes open his door. "Well, my dad taught me how to drive. And you know how he was."

Kyle's laugh seems forced, like he doesn't actually remember Randy's tendency to speed, and Stan has to remind himself once again that he shouldn't take this personally, that he's been the last thing on Kyle's mind for years. But it still hurts, everything down to the blatant space Kyle leaves between them as they walk toward the restaurant.

"Oh god, this place," Kyle says when they get inside. He's rubbing determinedly at his shoulder, grimacing a little, and he glances over at Stan. "I'm not going to whistle."

"You don't have to whistle," Stan confirms. "I don't think they bother adults with that shit anyway."

Kyle nods once, sharply, seemingly satisfied for the moment, and Stan approaches the counter to place their order. They used to always split a medium pepperoni, and Stan decides to go with that, upping the size, and hoping Kyle's tastes haven't changed over the years.

It feels like no time has passed at all as they follow the ritual of picking out cups (Kyle still inspects each one, making sure it's clean before he takes it) and getting their drinks. And then he stands aside, waiting for Stan like he always did, because Stan always picks out where they sit. Some things never change.

Stan finds a table for them that's tucked away in the corner. It's a little loud with the repeated 8-bit tunes blaring from the nearby arcade games, but it's better than sitting in the center of the room, where it feels like everyone is watching. Stan wants to be with Kyle as privately as possible, and this is the only way he can think of.

They sit across from each other at the tiny table, and it feels even worse, because now Stan has nowhere to look but at Kyle. It's still remarkable, how he looks the same at age twenty five as he did at sixteen. He's put on a little weight, his jawbone slightly less defined, a small but noticeable pudge at his waist when he sits. But he's still the same, he's _Kyle_ , and Stan doesn't realize he's staring until it's too late, when Kyle arches an eyebrow and demands, " _What?_ "

Stan jerks back, flustered. "Nothing, just – you look good. The same, I mean."

Kyle's scowl softens into something just short of a smile, that subtly affectionate look that Kyle used to give him when Kyle was most exasperated, and that hurts even more. "Well, thank you. I suppose." After a distinct pause, he adds, "You're mostly the same, too. You look tired, I guess. Scruffy."

"Old?" Stan supplies, rubbing self-consciously at the uneven stubble smattered across his face. He's used to putting hygiene on the back burner, often going two or three days without showering, shaving maybe once a week. He had no one to get ready for, no one to impress; a lame ass job at a gas station didn't require the most well-kept of employees, so Stan had admittedly let himself go a bit.

"No," Kyle says, rolling his eyes. "Tired and scruffy, like I said. You need a nap and a shave."

"Oh, I see." Stan drags out his response, looking for something else to comment on while they wait for their pizza. "That shoulder bothering you?" he asks, because Kyle's been rubbing at it periodically since they sat down.

"No." He sighs, sliding his hand away from it. "A little. It's nothing."

Kyle doesn't offer any further explanation and Stan doesn't push. It's only a short time later that a waitress who, thankfully, isn't dressed up as Whistlin' Willy, arrives with their pizza and a couple of plates. They grab a couple of pieces each to start with, and Stan's too hungry to worry about the silence now. He hasn't eaten much all day, only picked at his sandwich during his break, too nervous about this meet up to even think about eating. But it's caught up to him, and he feels confident enough now that Kyle isn't about to bolt any second.

It's been tense, but it feels like it's getting better. Kyle's closed off, distant, but Stan can easily imagine them reforging their friendship. This evening seems to be going well enough, Kyle seems content, and Stan doesn't know what he was so worried about. They were best friends for a reason, and that reason was that they just clicked.

There's still an untouched slice on Kyle's plate when he reaches for his second, and his third. When he goes in for a fourth, from the side that he's apparently claimed as his own, Stan reaches over and plucks the ignored piece off his plate. "This one not good enough for you?" he asks, taking a bite.

Kyle seems simultaneously confused and frustrated, but he shrugs it off, sighing. "No, it's all yours."

It feels like he did something wrong, that he pushed too far too fast, but an apology seems weird, too formal, so he lets it go. They're silent again, but it seems heavier, a little less comfortable.

Kyle takes a couple of pills when he's finished, digging them out of his jeans pocket and slipping them between his lips with a subtlety that would have worked on anyone but Stan. He notices everything about Kyle, he always has, which is why he's slightly shocked that it took him this long to realize that Kyle has a ring on his finger.

"Dude," Stan says, as Kyle pulls his hand away from his mouth. The thin, gold band blinks in the dim lighting before it's hidden under the table once more. "You're _married_?"

Kyle looks up at him, surprised. "Oh." He smiles, just a little, lifting his hand and twisting the ring. It looks like it's such a natural thing for him to do, something he does constantly, which means he's probably been wearing that ring for a long time. Stan doesn't know why he's disappointed, or even surprised. Kyle's a great guy once you get to know him; of course some bright little Ivy League girl snatched him up.

"Engaged," Kyle says, and his smile brightens, though suddenly he's not meeting Stan's gaze.

"She uh – gave you a ring?"

"He," Kyle says simply, and somehow that feels like the biggest betrayal of all. It doesn't matter that they haven't spoken in years, that they haven't been friends – if Kyle were interested in men, if Kyle were going to _marry_ a man, it should have been Stan.

Stan's cheeks flush in a hurt, unreasonable rage, because he _claimed_ Kyle: They only had fifteen minutes in a high school bathroom stall, but he kissed Kyle's neck when he wasn't allowed Kyle's lips, and he left marks against his collarbone. He still remembers every inch of Kyle's body, the way his dick felt in his mouth, the way he tasted, the jut of his hipbones and the sweaty curve of his spine. He remembers holding Kyle close, as tight as he could, even as the reality of what they had done started to hit Kyle, and he began to push out of Stan's embrace.

_"Dude, I'm straight."_ That's all he said, shaking wildly as he yanked up his pants. _"I'm straight, okay? I'm straight."_

And then it was over, and so was their friendship.

Not so fucking straight after all.

Stan had never been sure of his sexuality either, especially not back in high school. But when Stan wanted something, he pursued it, even if the reasons behind it weren't clear. He didn't even realize he'd been blindly chasing Kyle until he cornered him in the hallway that day, and they had argued, and then Stan was kissing him, hard and rough and desperate, and Kyle had clamped against him, kissing him back with a growl rumbling in the back of his throat.

Stan doesn't remember who led whom to that bathroom stall, who locked them in, but over the years he'd convinced himself it was Kyle. He doesn't know now, he really doesn't, but Kyle is looking at him with a vague confusion written across his features, as if he really has no fucking clue why Stan isn't congratulating him.

"Wow, dude, that's great." It comes out flatly, but it's the best Stan can do. It'd be different if it were a girl; Stan thinks he could actually be kind of happy for Kyle if it were a girl, because it would just validate the last thing Kyle had said to him. But this was different. This meant Stan hadn't been good enough, that he had done something wrong; that another guy had been able to win Kyle over in a way Stan hadn't been capable of.

It's not Kyle's fault that Stan ended up staying in South Park, wasting away while all of his friends moved on with their lives. But right now, it feels like it is. Because if Kyle hadn't run away from him, if they had become friends again, or if they even started dating, maybe that would have motivated Stan to follow Kyle to college, to stay as close to him as possible. Stan wasn't whole without Kyle, and even though they've been awkward at best tonight, it feels like Stan has woken from a coma that's lasted since they first started drifting apart. Kyle's very presence motivates him, encourages him, makes him feel a contentedness that nothing else can. And now, Kyle makes someone else feel that way.

Even worse, someone else makes _Kyle_ feel that way, and Stan feels like he's going to be sick.

"Really great," he says, swallowing down the lump in his throat. He wishes he hadn't eaten so much, because it's turned into a white hot acid in his stomach. "Uh – what's his name?"

"Richard." There's a little sigh to it, like a swooning high school girl, and more than ever, Stan wants to go back in time and fix everything, because somehow he fucked this up. If he hadn't been so depressed in elementary school, if he hadn't turned into such a dick in middle school, if he had just stepped down and let Kyle win all of their fights, if he'd tried to contact Kyle sooner, maybe they'd be sitting here as a couple instead of strangers.

It's not fair. Stan didn't realize how much hope he'd placed in this night; didn't intend for it to be a date by any means – he thought he'd given up all romantic hopes of any kind a long time ago. But this new information is bearing down on him crushingly, a heavy weight of despair, because his life is irreparably ruined. Even Kyle's mom must approve of this Richard asshole, since she acted like it was such a scandal for Kyle to go out with someone else, and that realization just adds salt to the wound. There used to be no one Mrs. Broflovski approved of more than Stan. But it had all changed without Stan even realizing it.

He was the one to stay behind, to keep living the same life, but his entire world had gotten flipped upside down while he stood blindly in the midst of it all, hands over his ears, pretending he was still a kid.

"I'm happy for you, dude," he says, and the arcade music must have covered the waver in his voice, because Kyle smiles.

"Thanks," he says. "I'm really happy."

And that was the moment Stan knew for sure that he'd never be happy again. He'd fake a smile for as long as he had to, he'd even attend Kyle's wedding, if he were actually invited, but he couldn't be truly happy, or even content, in a world where someone else had taken the one thing he'd ever really cared about; the one person who had ever cared about Stan, however briefly.

He looks up at Kyle, who's smiling down at his ring, lost in another world. And looking at him, Stan's in another world, too: one where he's the only person who can make Kyle smile like that.


	2. Chapter 2

It's a few days before Stan works up the nerve to contact Kyle again.  He'd hoped, a little desperately, that Kyle would call him, or at least come by the gas station again.  Kyle does neither, and it's just like it used to be: Stan going through his day in a depressed haze, knowing that Kyle is in town, and too afraid to do anything about it.  It's been like this every time Kyle comes back from college, and it kills Stan every time. 

But this time, it's worse.  This time, he can't go on pretending that things would be the same if they ever met back up, because Kyle's going to get married.  While Stan's spending his days wasting away thinking about Kyle, about what he could have done differently to save them, all the little things he fucked up over the years, Kyle's probably sitting around making wedding plans and spending time with his darling _Richard_. 

The name makes Stan feel physically ill, a full body shudder coursing through him every time he thinks of it.  By Wednesday, it's bad enough that he calls in, and tells his angry supervisor that he has a raging fever and can't possibly get out of bed.  It's a huge exaggeration, since he's really just jealous and a bit heartbroken, but he didn't think his supervisor would accept that reason – he barely accepted the fever. 

But it's done, and Stan tosses his phone to the floor.  He burrows deeper into his nest of quilts, finding a temporary comfort in the warmth.  He remembers when he and Kyle used to have sleepovers, how they'd share a bed and somehow wind up with their limbs tangled together by the following morning, and how they'd be too tired to move apart.  That used to be Stan's favorite part about their nights together: the warmth, the closeness, the soft whispering as they tried to wake up.

Suddenly three quilts and his own body heat aren't cutting it anymore, and Stan feels cold despite it all.  Nothing can really compare to how things used to be, how he felt when he was with Kyle.  They were perfect together, even if they were never meant to be more than friends – even their combined body heat was warmer than anything else. 

That's what finally motivates Stan to get out of bed.  This isn't like the other times Kyle came back to town, because they had actually talked, and Stan still feels better in Kyle's presence, even if he's not the most important anymore. 

He finds his phone in a pile of dirty clothes, and he doesn't even know what he's going to say to Kyle, but he doesn't give himself time to talk himself out of it.  He goes to his recent calls list, Kyle's number is still at the very top, and hits the dial button. 

It takes Kyle a while to answer, just like last time, and Stan's already anticipating the sound of a voicemail message when the ringing cuts off with a distant click, then a muffled sigh.

"What?"  His voice is too muffled for Stan to get a grasp on his mood, but he's intimidated suddenly, because he has no idea what to say. 

"Hey, Kyle."  Stan knows he sounds pitiful; the kind of voice a lost dog would have if it could speak, and he almost wants to hang up and save himself the humiliation. 

"Ugh, who is this?" 

"Dude, it's Stan."  He has to sit back down on the bed, because he's stupidly shaky, a cold sweat starting to accumulate at the back of his neck.  The small amount of willpower that he had gathered up to call Kyle in the first place is quickly seeping out of him, and he thinks he'll be grateful if Kyle hangs up on him. 

"Okay," Kyle says.  "What do you want?" 

"I don't know."  His feelings are hurt, and he doesn't know why Kyle's talking to him like this, but he already regrets calling.  "I'm sorry, I'll leave you alone." 

"Good."  The line goes dead, just like that, and Stan falls back over on his bed and moans into his pillow.  It shouldn't hurt this much – they haven't been friends in so long – but it still feels like a knife has been plunged into his heart.  Crying would make him feel even more pathetic, which is exactly why he squeezes his eyes closed to force out a few tears, wallowing in his failure.  

He wishes he had someone to talk to, someone who had been there since the beginning, but there's no one left.  He doesn't even know if anyone he went to high school with is still in South Park.  Surely some of them are, but Stan can't remember the last time he saw any of them, and shortly after graduation, he deleted all their numbers from his phone in a fit of drunken bitterness.  The only people Stan sees regularly now are his coworkers, and a dirty, 70-year-old drunk named Fred who comes into the gas station every few days and babbles at Stan incoherently as he buys cheap beer and boxes of condoms. 

He doesn't know how long he stays there, his face pressed to his pillow, but he has no motivation to move.  He hadn't realized how alone he had become over the years; he had mentally remained in high school, and if anyone had asked him if he had friends, he would have said, "Yes, a lot of them."  But it's not true anymore.  He doesn't even have his parents – they moved off to California to be closer to Shelly, because maybe she had always been the favorite (she was certainly the more successful one, if working security at any event she could manage could be called success).  They told him he should move, too, but he had been independent for a long time, and he knew moving back in with them wouldn't be an option.  He couldn't afford it, and they left him behind without much remorse.  He'll get a call every month or so, if he's lucky. 

He stares at his phone, tapping his contacts list.  It's pathetically small: Boss, City Wok, Dad, Kyle (it's Kyle's old, inactive number from high school, but Stan doesn't have the heart to delete it), Mom, Shelly, and Uncle Jimbo.  He never really talks to Jimbo anymore – Stan will call him on holidays if he remembers, and sometimes Jimbo will call and offer to take Stan on a hunting trip, which is always declined.  Stan hasn't held a gun since he was eight years old and he shot Skuzzlebutt on live TV, and he still hasn't quite gotten over the guilt.  But Jimbo hasn't given up the hope of making a man out of him, because real men hunt. 

They're on good terms despite their differences, and Jimbo is the only family member Stan still feels comfortable around.  So Stan calls him, because there's no one else to call, and he just needs to hear a friendly voice. 

Jimbo answers after the second ring.  "Well, hey there, Stan!  I hope you're not in trouble, because I'm waiting for Ned to get his root canal taken care of, and he won't be too happy if I leave.  He's a big baby about teeth, you know." 

"I'm not in trouble."  It feels like a stupid thing to say, because he knows he sounds like shit.  Jimbo, however, sounds chipper as ever.

"Well, then!  To what do I owe the pleasure?" 

"Nothing, never mind.  This was a bad idea." 

"Woah, hey…" Jimbo's voice lowers in concern.  "What's going on?  If you need me to shoot somebody, I will." 

Stan doesn't doubt it, and he breathes out a laugh despite himself.  "Yeah, that might actually fix everything." 

There's a shifting sound on Jimbo's end, a clang of a door opening, and then Stan can hear the wind blowing against the phone.  "Okay," Jimbo says.  "Start at the beginning." 

Stan rolls over onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes.  "Ugh, it's so stupid." 

"If it's bothering you, it's not stupid.  Unless you're Ned, and you're bothered by the fact you have a voice box, in which case it's your own goddamn fault for smoking too many cigarettes.  Then it's stupid." 

"It's kind of my fault," Stan admits.

There's a sigh from the other end, but it sounds more sympathetic than impatient.  "Well, tell me what happened." 

Stan tells him, every detail, including his and Kyle's encounter in high school.  Jimbo takes it all in stride, listening without any interruption, except for the occasional sound of acknowledgement.  It feels good to say it all out loud, and even the tears that start pouring down his cheeks are a relief.  It's like everything he's been bottling up for all these years is finally coming out, and suddenly he doesn't care if Jimbo has anything worthwhile to contribute.  Stan needed this.  Desperately. 

It takes him half an hour to finish, and he tells Jimbo about his and Kyle's not-quite date, about Richard, and then that horrible phone call with Kyle. 

There's a long moment of silence, and if it weren't for the crackling sound of the breeze against the speaker, Stan would have thought Jimbo had hung up.  Then, finally, "I'll get my shotgun." 

"Jimbo, no," Stan moans.  "Just – please?  I need like, advice or something.  Okay?  Please." 

 "Okay, let's see here."  There's another long pause.  "I always knew you and Kyle were a little funny, and frankly I expected you to end up ages ago.  But listen, Stanley, the thing you need to keep in mind about boys is that they're not girls." 

"Wow, thank you, I had no idea." 

"No, no – hear me out.  You see, with Ned, all it takes is a six-pack and some time in the woods to win him over.  With ladies, oh boy, ladies are different.  They need chocolate and emotions and flowers… all that frilly stuff, you know?  You gotta fake your way through it with them, be all sensitive and stuff.  If Chef were still around, he'd tell you – he was a pro at this." 

Stan's chest aches at the thought of Chef; there's still a void where he should be.  Every time something goes wrong, there's a part of Stan that still wants to turn to him, surprised every time that he's gone.  "Okay," Stan says.  "But Kyle's not a girl." 

"Exactly!  So you gotta stop treating him like one."  

"But I care about him." 

"Then bring him some beers and sit down and watch some football.  Take him out hunting, or bar hopping – for God's sake, don't call him to talk about your feelings." 

That stings a little.  "That's how I am." 

"Okay, well, stop it.  No one likes a pansy, Stan.  You gotta man up.  This Richard fella – I bet you anything he's a man's man.   Confident, carnivorous, tough, the whole class act.  And now it's your job to outdo him, puff up like an animal and make yourself look bigger."    

It's horrible advice, in Stan's opinion.  He doesn't want to be someone he's not, if for no other reason than the fact that Kyle would be able to see right through it.  Stan is never opposed to drinking, though, and he can't imagine anyone making it through college without picking up the habit – Kyle included. 

"Maybe I'll take him out for drinks."

"Not sissy drinks," Jimbo says, and Stan sighs. 

"Yeah.  Okay." 

"It'll work out.  I gotta go check on Ned, but give me a call if you need anything else, okay?" 

"I will," Stan promises. 

The silence that falls after they hang up feels extra heavy, and Stan lets his phone slip from his limp fingers.  It bounces on the carpet, tumbling somewhere under his bed.  He doesn't care.  He'll get it later, when it starts making its low battery sound.  No one is going to call him anyway.

He goes to the kitchen and grabs a beer out of the fridge, then plants himself in front of the TV.  It's where he'll stay for the rest of the day, watching shows without quite comprehending them, dwelling on the past. 

Stan decides to go to work the next day, despite every temptation to stay in bed and mope.  He wants to call in again – call in for the rest of the week – but he needs the money, and heartsickness isn't exactly excusable.  He was lucky that someone was available to cover for him at such short notice yesterday, and he doesn't want to press his luck with his manager again. 

He rolls out of bed with the same reluctance as usual, five minutes before he has to leave.  He works an annoying shift: noon to seven.  If he were a morning person, he'd get up and eat before he left, but he never wants to cut into his sleep.  Unfortunately, this means he doesn't get to eat anything until after the lunch rush, which starts as he arrives and ends around three or four.  He doesn't get an actual break – he just has to sneak in a quick meal when he has the chance – so he prefers to eat when there's no one around.  The only plus side is that, in such a small town, when the station is dead – it's dead.  There have been stretches up to two hours where no one came in.  Though it can get a little boring, Stan doesn't mind it, because it gives him plenty of time to eat and get things done without a line of inpatient people standing at his register, coughing and sighing in his face, one after another. 

It's really a shitty job, he realizes as he slides into his car.  He's been indifferent toward it since he started working there seven years ago.  It feels like a long time, when he thinks of it that way, but the days had blurred together, each one the same as the last.  He was trapped by the money, the familiarity, and it had never occurred to him to look for a job anywhere else.  But maybe all jobs are shitty – he really has no way of knowing. 

He gets there right on time, pulling into his usual spot behind the building.  He comes in through a back door and clocks in, running his fingers through his hair as he makes his way to the front of the store.  He had forgotten to comb his hair that morning, or even look in a mirror, and he can only hope he looks presentable enough.  

Stephanie, the sweet little high school dropout who works the shift before him, is already dealing with a long line, and she looks toward him frantically.  "Stan!" she calls, panicked.  She's only been working here for a month, she's young and this is her first job, and Stan feels sorry for her.  He doesn't know why she dropped out; she's smart and pretty and ambitious, already asking about how to get a management position.  But her personal life isn't something they talk about in their few minutes of overlap. 

"I got it, don't worry," Stan says, reaching in front of her to log her out of the register.  The customers are getting restless, sighing and complaining, but Stan's dealt with it for so long he barely hears it.  He pops the drawer out of the register, handing it over to her to be counted down. 

"Let me know if you need anything," he says, though he knows she won't.  He wouldn't have time to help her anyway, but it's a nice thing to say.  The manager should be back there somewhere, and will take it from here. 

"Thanks," she says, taking her drawer and leafing through some of the bills.  Stan sometimes worries that she might be pocketing some, but they don't talk about that either.  "Oh!  Some old guy missed the toilet earlier.  It was – uh – number two.  I didn't have time to clean it up.  Sorry."  If she had time to see it, she had time to clean it up, but Stan lets it go. 

"I got it," he repeats.  "Have a nice night."  He won't be able to do a thing about it until he makes it through the rush, and he doesn't really feel too bad about leaving a pile of shit on the bathroom floor for hours.  He'll take care of it when he can, and no sooner. 

He puts his fresh drawer in the register and logs in, but he doesn't acknowledge any of the customers until he sees Stephanie make it safely into the back.  Robberies aren't too common, but Stan's been held up at gunpoint at least twice since he started working here, and he can never quite get over the terror of it.  The fact that they let a young girl work here by herself boggles his mind, but she seems okay with it, taking offense when Stan occasionally suggests that this isn't a good place for her. 

After that, she completely leaves his mind, and Stan starts clearing the line with nary an apology for the wait.  He more or less gave up on customer service years ago, because it's harder to be friendly and get shot down than it is to tune out completely. 

His stomach is churning angrily the whole time, a mix of hunger pains and nerves.  Eating might make him feel better, but it has just as good of a chance to make him puke, and he's not sure if he should risk eating his lunch at all. 

Hunger wins out in the end, and as soon as the crowd clears out and Stan is left alone, he grabs his lunch from beneath the counter and sits down, desperate to relax.  There's a small, cheap TV behind the counter for slow periods, but Stan usually doesn't turn it on, because the reception is painfully shitty.  He'd rather enjoy the silence, staring at nothing as he picks apart his sandwich, and his mind inevitably drifts to Kyle. 

He wonders what Kyle's doing right now, at this very moment.  It's 3:30 – what do normal people do at 3:30?  Stan can't remember.  He doesn't think Kyle has started his internship yet, but it seems a little strange to think that Kyle might just be sitting around at his parents' house all day.  It's much more likely, Stan realizes, that Kyle is spending this time with Richard, making trips into the city to shop for tuxes and wedding shit.  He always imagined that Kyle would be something of a Bridezilla, and he can't help but smile a bit, hoping that Richard is getting the full brunt of it.  Fucker deserves it. 

Back in high school, no one had been able to handle Kyle's temper the way Stan could.  Kyle would get so angry that he'd shake, violently, and his inhibition would completely desert him.  The effect made a lot of their classmates think Kyle was crazy, and maybe he was.  He'd been sent to the school counselor a few times, though nothing had ever come of it, but he'd go home with Stan and bury his face against Stan's chest and cry.  It made Stan feel kind of special, in a selfish way, because he had always been the only one allowed to see Kyle break down like that. 

Stan was the only one able to nip the anger in the bud, too, if he was around when Kyle was getting worked up.  A gentle touch on the shoulder, or a hug from behind – it brought Kyle back to reality, grounded him, and Kyle would let Stan lead him away so he could calm down. 

He wonders if Richard can calm Kyle like that, if he keeps Kyle anchored the way Stan always did.  It seems unlikely, because Kyle usually lashed out at anyone else who tried to pacify him, including his parents. 

The only time Stan's touch hadn't helped had been after their bathroom encounter, when Kyle had left in a rage that Stan was completely powerless against. 

He had just taken another bite of his sandwich when it hits him: That was probably when he had lost his power over Kyle entirely.  The bite turns to poison in his mouth, and Stan knows he'll vomit if he swallows it.  He bends down and spits it out in the trashcan between his feet.  He stays hunched over like that for a long moment, head between his knees, staring at the partially chewed mess of bread and turkey and cheese in the trashcan, the nest of wadded up paper and banana peels it rested upon.  The peels are probably from Stephanie, because she goes through bananas like a monkey, one after another, as often as she can get them.  It's one thing about her that makes Stan resent her a little, because Kyle hated bananas so passionately that Stan couldn't help but associate him with them.   

In the end, it's the smell of the bananas that get him, and he clamps a hand over his mouth and runs to the bathroom, only to get hit with an overpowering smell of shit as soon as he opens the door.  He almost pukes right there, and he gives himself a moment, standing weakly in the doorway.  He swallows thickly and backs out of the bathroom, deciding to go make up some mop water.

Stephanie had under exaggerated the mess: It's all over the sides of the toilet and the floor, and somehow there's even some on the wall.  Stan cleans it up, slowly, methodically, his shirt pulled over his nose and gagging to himself the whole way through.  He never really had Kyle's obsession for cleanliness, but even Stan can't bring himself to kneel down and puke in the midst of this mess.  He feels ashamed, suddenly, thinking about Kyle while he's mopping up shit.  What would Kyle think of him, if he saw him like this?  Would he care at all? 

Kyle had always believed in Stan's potential, for some reason.  He used to tell Stan all the time that he could see him as a doctor, or even a vet.  Stan admittedly had a knack for taking care of Kyle's numerous health problems and illnesses, but he had never been fully convinced that he'd do well taking care of anyone else.  He just didn't care about anyone else, that was the problem.  He didn't want to spend his life listening to people complain about what hurt them, and where, or suffering through descriptions of the color and viscosity of their snot. 

Then again, Stan doesn't want to spend the rest of his life making minimum wage to mop up shit and worry about guns getting waved in his face, but here he is.  There are certainly perks to pursuing some kind of medical career, but that would involve going back to school, which would take money and time and effort – three things that Stan usually isn't willing to sacrifice.  This job?  It sucks, but it's easy.  He comes in for seven hours, five days a week, and then it's over.  When he goes home, the gas station and all its shitty customers cease to exist, and Stan is free. 

School isn't that easy.  The work would follow him home, day after day, and he'd always have to stress about a paper or an exam – it would never end.  He'd have to be in school for so long to be an actual doctor, too; Stan doesn't have that kind of commitment to anything. 

Except Kyle. 

By the time the mess is cleaned up and Stan rolls the mop bucket back into the storeroom, his stomach has somewhat settled down.  He still feels kind of fragile, and he carefully eases himself back into his chair.  Even though he washed his hands profusely, he still feels contaminated, so he uses a napkin to lift his sandwich back up, staring at it thoughtfully.  It's probably stupid to give it another try, but he's starving, so he goes for it. 

He only gets to take a couple of bites before people start filing into the store again, the distant, bitter smell of gasoline wafting in with them.  It makes Stan feel a little sick again, and he hates that he doesn't have the luxury of being alone this time.  Customers, inexplicably, always came in packs.  The three that had just entered didn't seem to know each other, having arrived at the same time by pure chance, but now that they've broken the bubble of solitude, more and more people will start to come.  That's how it's always been. 

It holds true even now, and Stan stays unusually busy for the rest of his shift, though not overwhelmingly so.  At one point he sneaks a bag of pretzels behind the counter, snacking on them between customers, and that helps his stomach a little.

The gas station will probably stay extra busy over the next few weeks, as the winter holidays approach.  Every year Stan has to deal with lost travelers who somehow made their way this far into the mountains, and they always want snacks and maps and souvenirs.  Stan gets bitched at for the latter, because the gas station doesn't sell South Park mugs, and somehow everyone seems to think that's his fault.  He also gets blamed for the lack of pillows and blankets for sale, and the gas prices, whether they're good or bad. 

Stan's used to all of it, but he finds himself dreading it more than usual.  Maybe it's because he's hyperaware of his proximity to Kyle, or because he knows Kyle has made significant strides in his law career.  Either way, Stan is feeling pretty shitty by the time he gets into his car.

He didn't see Kyle today, which is more disappointing than it should be.  He's seen Kyle once in seven years; those aren't good odds, but for some reason Stan really expects him to come back.  It's not going to happen, especially after their final phone call, but it's not quite that easy to accept. 

Stan takes his time driving home, making his way down the dimly lit streets, and he doesn't realize he's gotten off his usual route until he rolls to a stop in front of Kyle's house.  There's a light on in Kyle's bedroom, but the curtains are mostly drawn, and Stan can't see anything interesting.  From what he can tell, the walls are the still covered in the same blue paint from when they were kids.  That makes Stan smile, and a part of him hopes the whole room is the same, covered in memories they shared.    

He'd kill to catch a glimpse of Kyle, even if it's just for a second.  But this is creepy, and Stan feels like shit for it, so he grudgingly eases off the brake and pulls away, keeping his eye on the house in his mirror until it blurs into the darkness. 

He decides right then that maybe Jimbo's advice isn't all bad.  It might be worth it to pick up a case of beers after work tomorrow and drop by Kyle's on the way home.  Maybe they'd actually be able to hang out and enjoy each other's company, like they're supposed to. 

There are also a lot of ways that it could go bad, really bad, but Stan doesn't want to think about that.  Their relationship is fucked up enough as it is; he doesn't have much to lose.  But there's so very much to gain. 


End file.
